


Patterns

by Hours_Gone_By



Series: Trope Bingo Round Twelve [10]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Brutal Murder, Camp Nanowrimo, Deal with a Devil, Gen, Iacon City, Iacon Mechaforensics Division, Investigations, Murder, Murder Mystery, Police, Ritualized Murder, Serial Killers, Supernatural Elements, Trope Bingo Round 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 17:26:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18480907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hours_Gone_By/pseuds/Hours_Gone_By
Summary: While investigating a bizarre and grotesque series of murders in Iacon, Bluestreak has to seek help from an unorthodox source.





	Patterns

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Camp NaNoWriMo April 2019 and [Trope Bingo](https://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org) [Round 12](https://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org/tag/round+twelve). Prompt: Deal with a Devil
> 
> Inspired by [this prompt](https://i0.wp.com/thefakeredhead.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/346-writing-prompt-by-TFR-IG.png?zoom=1.25&fit=800%2C800&ssl=1) from The Fake Redhead Writes.

Bluestreak rechecked the protective medallions inlaid on his doors and his wrists, making sure they were clean and intact. What he was planning to do was questionable enough, he didn't need to bring a curse back to the precinct with him. Aware of the irony, he whispered a quick prayer to Primus asking to be in His optics during this time of peril, then stepped into the lift.

The lift was swift and silent and made no other stops as it bore him to the top storey. The…person he was coming to see had the entire floor, so Bluestreak stepped right out into their lobby. The lobby was clean, bright, and modern, with lots of frosted glass and tasteful spots of bright colours. An abstract sculpture that looked like a temple being demolished was placed in such a way as to be unnerving caught out of the corner of the optic. Brass gears spilled out of what would have been the sanctuary, over the broken walls and sickly purple light flickered under the bottom.

It was worse when you looked at it directly. Bluestreak shivered and looked away again.

A sign on the desk informed him that the receptionist had left briefly and to please be seated. Bluestreak chose to stand by one of the windows instead. The view over Iacon was impressive, to say the least, and on a less cloudy day, he could have seen all the way to the High Council Pavilions.

The windows were in an unusual arrangement and, after a few nano-kliks, Bluestreak realized they were grouped in fours instead of the usual threes or fives. Curious, he counted the other objects in the room. Except for the desk and the sculpture, everything else came in groups of composite numbers, not a thing grouped in prime numbers in sight. Bluestreak wouldn't have thought anything of it anywhere else, but here…

"Yeah, it's a bit too on the nose, ain't it?"

Bluestreak would deny till the end of his existence that the low, raspy voice made him jump and stumble a little as he turned to look.

"'Least I can say I'm not the one to blame," the speaker continued, lounging against the doorframe of what Bluestreak hoped was an office. "The previous, ah, _agent_ had the place all gussied up, I just ain't gotten around to changing it. Seems to work pretty well as it is, anyway.

"Now, my receptionist slipped off to run a little errand for me, but I would say you must be Corporal Bluestreak, my three o'clock?" Light gleamed along a pair of polished black sensor horns as the mech – or, at least, that's what they looked like – straightened up and indicated the room behind him with a sweeping gesture. "Come on in and let the Jazz-meister know what he can do for you."

Bluestreak went, reluctantly, into the office and sat down in front of the desk, nervously eyeing a bowl full of something that looked distressingly like miniature sparks. Jazz sauntered in behind him and took a seat opposite, slouching down in the chair and looking for all of Cybertron like they were two friends about to have a chat.

"You've heard of the murders in the western part of the city," Bluestreak began, wanting to get right to it and get out. Jazz nodded but otherwise gave nothing away. "There's a-a ritualized aspect to them suggesting the perpetrator may be engaging in or at least enacting some aspect of Unicron-worship during each murder."

Jazz shrugged. "If he is, it's the pop-culture version of it. I haven't felt any ripples and believe you me, I would."

Bluestreak had no doubt of that. Some mecha who did this work, brokering deals on behalf of Unicron were just that: mecha. Jazz, though, Jazz was supposed to be the spawn of Unicron himself. Certainly, he was powerful enough to be. Even the priests wouldn't touch him out of fear of retribution from him or his master. It was said that the only danger to Jazz would be the touch of a true Prime – and Sentinel, as all Primes since Nova had, refused to take action or even comment.

Some had pointed out that the rise of Unicron's followers, and his agents' ability to operate relatively openly, began with the disappearance of Nova Prime. Few wanted to speculate or were willing to admit if they did just what that implied about the post-Nova Primes and their connection to the Matrix.

"So you're claiming you have no knowledge of any followers of Unicron performing ritualized murders?" Bluestreak persisted.

Jazz chuckled. "I ain't 'claiming' anything, mech. I'm _telling_ you: it ain't one of the boss's guys doing this. You really think a god of _chaos_ is going to be into organized stuff like rituals? He doesn't need someone taking down mecha one at a time, either. When he comes, he's coming for the _whole_ planet, mecha and mechanimals and Primus and all, you dig?"

Suppressing a shiver, Bluestreak let that angle go, for now. "Is it possible the perpetrator believes these murders will gain him Unicron's attention or favour somehow?"

"Now, I can't go telling you what a mech thinks," Jazz said, almost sounding as if he were lightly scolding Bluestreak. "Not without doing a little work of my own that's a bit above and beyond civic duty, if you get what I'm saying. I'm a broker, I don't give stuff away, I make deals. You ready to bargain for that, Corporal?"

Bluestreak chose not to answer that. "So there's nothing at all you can tell me, then?"

"Didn't say that." Jazz sat up and leaned forward, bracing his elbow on the desk and propping his chin on that hand. He traced the rim of the bowl of spark-like things with the forefinger of the other. It set up a not-unpleasant humming sound just at the edge of Bluestreak's hearing. The sparks flickered in a strange rhythm. "Just, anything else might require a little more work. So what d'you say? We can make a deal, yeah?"

"No," Bluestreak said firmly and rose. "Thank you for your time, Jazz. I'll see myself out."

"Okay then. You know where I'll be if you need me."

Bluestreak left, hoping to Primus he wouldn't have to come back.

* * *

The investigation dragged on and more and more bodies, mutilated and carved with Unicronian symbols, turned up. The crime scenes got more elaborate too as if the killer was mocking them. The entire mechaforensics department worked punishing amounts of overtime, analyzing and reanalyzing as they searched for something, anything, that could get them a lead. Interviews were done and redone. Priests scried and prayed for information. Public appeals were made and rewards offered and increased to an amount that should have tempted anyone. Nothing. The most information they had gotten had been from Jazz telling them who it _wasn't_.

"You have to go back to him, Bluestreak," Flatfoot commanded him. "Make a bargain, offer him anything within reason, to give us _some_ kind of lead. Primus, ask him for the killer's name if the cost isn't too damn high!"

When Bluestreak relayed that to Jazz – or at least a version of it – the self-named broker just laughed.

"Why'd I want to give you the name of the killer?" Jazz wanted to know. "Maybe they ain't a follower of the boss as such, but they're sure doing a good job of sowing chaos. Kinda our whole deal around here, y'know?"

"Then what?" Bluestreak demanded. "What will it take to convince you to do the right thing?"

Jazz dipped a finger into the bowl of glowing spheres, stirred idly. They flickered in that strange rhythm again. "What makes you think your right and my right are the same thing? You know what they call me: demon, spawn of Unicron, Unmaker's Prince. I sound like someone who wants a killer off the streets to you?"

"Mecha are dying!" Bluestreak protested, not caring how loud he was or how unprofessional he got. "Every murder is worse, more gruesome, more – "

Frustrated, Bluestreak yanked a datapad out of subspace, slammed it down, and a slideshow of crime scene photos began to play. Jazz watched it with a kind of idle interest that slowly morphed into a frown. At last, he paused one of the pictures and zoomed in on the remains of the face.

"This dude," he said in a low, angry voice. "What's his designation. What are _all_ their designations?"

"That victim's designation was Circuitslash of Centurion," Bluestreak answered. "The first victim was named Starshot of Esserlon. The other victims' kin haven't empowered us to release names yet, due to the occult nature of the deaths."

Jazz looked up, frowning. "There was a Techlight of Ambustus Minor and a Wheelwing of Vos, too, wasn't there?"

"I can't tell you that," Bluestreak replied, even though he knew perfectly well that there was.

"Means 'yes,'" Jazz muttered, looking down to flip through the photos again. "You don't need to tell me, I know. I'm thinking I know all their designations. I'll bet you real shanix that I've brokered a deal with every single victim. Your killer ain't a follower of Unicron, but his victims _are_."

"We haven't been able to determine a solid link between the victims," Bluestreak said. It was only a partial lie: there were links between some of the victims, but not all.

"Iacon's the religious hub of Cybertron," Jazz pointed out. "Ain't the place to go bragging about your devotion to the Unmaker. Plus, god of chaos? Not big on organized gatherings. They know each other but they ain't gonna gather once a week in a large convenient group. You didn't find a connection 'cuz we make sure there's no connection to be found."

That explained lot and it made Jazz's statement that the killer was using the 'pop-culture version' of Unicronian ritual practice make more sense. The killer wasn't the practitioner, he was announcing that his victims were, they just hadn't seen it. Bluestreak hoped that Jazz – who was definitely magic-capable and possibly an actual demon – wouldn't pick up on his rising excitement. Bluestreak could keep his voice even, and professional but autonomic functions like spark-spin weren't controllable.

"So they're killing off your clientele," Bluestreak observed. "That can't be good for business."

"It's not," Jazz growled, "among other things. But even I got limits."

"Such as?"

"Can't just go interfering in mortal affairs, one of you has to _ask_ for my help."

"Sounds like a rule," Bluestreak couldn't help saying.

"A pattern," Jazz corrected. "Even chaos got patterns when you look deep down. Even chaos ain't immune from cause and effect. There's the rules of gods and then there's the rules of the universe."

"So, you want to find the killer too," now that it was inconveniencing him, Bluestreak did _not_ say. "Do you have the capability to do it?"

Jazz looked at him and, after a moment, slowly nodded. He clearly knew what he'd just driven into, and he wasn't happy about it. "Just need someone to ask for it."

Bluestreak sat back and let his hands rest casually on the arms of the chair. "Well, then, Jazz. Let's make a deal."


End file.
